Great

Some poems are long, like The Raven. I’m okay with those. I don’t know what makes them poems and not just stories. The other poetry, the regular stuff, I don’t really get it.

It has to be blunt and direct. Maybe I read them wrong. According to some, I can’t even pronounce poem correctly. (I say “poym” instead of “poe um.”)

I have journaled every day for years. Sometimes the entries are long or profound. Sometimes they are short and boring. I might comment on the weather. I might talk about a headache.

The goal is to write. I don’t always pick the words. Sometimes it is a feeling. Sometimes they feel like poetry. I found “Great” in an old entry.

Great
It might be great,
or terrible,
to see ourselves,
for a moment,
as others do.

It might be terrible,
or great,
to be seen by others
as we see ourselves.

I don’t remember the day. I was capturing a feeling. Reading it back, I rediscovered it. I don’t understand poetry. I could never write a poem. But seen from a different angle, it felt different. When I read it, I wasn’t sure I had written it.

Sometimes I look at what other people make, and I think, “I could never do that.” Sometimes I have a belief about what I can do. What I am. I have beliefs for all my labels: “Child, sibling, spouse, parent, boss, writer, reader…” Each has a weight. Each has baggage. Even if I accept them, am I good enough at them?

Maybe thinking “I can’t do something” and thinking “I am not something” are the same thing. I believe I know what something is. I believe I know what I can do, know what I am. The distance between what I believe I am and what I actually am might just be the angle I’m looking from.

What labels have I allowed to become baggage? Would it be great or terrible to see myself as others do? Would it be terrible or great for others to see me as I see myself?

Be curious, be kind, be whole, do good things.